


Much, more, less, nothing

by unknownlifeform



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, F/M, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Heavy Angst, Maglor centric, Mental Health Issues, Missing Scene, Trans Male Character, a whole lot of my headcanons in here just so you're aware, maglor is trans but the fic doesn't focus on that, squint and you'll miss it maedhros/fingon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:48:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23334904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknownlifeform/pseuds/unknownlifeform
Summary: Makalaure, son of Feanaro, has never lacked when it comes to family. He has more brothers than anyone could need, he has a wife, he has cousins he may or may not get along with. From the time he's a child until well into his adult years, his family only keeps getting more additions.Maglor, son of Feanor, watches his family disappear, leaving him one by one, and all because of three accursed gems.
Relationships: Elrond Peredhel & Elros Tar-Minyatur & Maglor | Makalaurë, Maedhros | Maitimo & Maglor | Makalaurë, Maglor & his family, Maglor | Makalaurë/Maglor's Wife
Comments: 12
Kudos: 24





	1. There are twenty years to go, a golden age I know

**Author's Note:**

> This is officially my first fic in this fandom and the longest thing I've ever published. Please let me know what you think, I am starved for feedback.  
> Before we start, some things:  
> \- this fic will have three chapters. Chapter 1 and 2 will be long, while chapter 3 is only going to be a short epilogue. Yes the chapter title is a Placebo song  
> \- this first chapter is entirely set in Valinor before the creation of the Silmarils. As such, all names are in Quenya. Also, the angst and canonical death warnings are for next chapter, this one is the happy one  
> \- I headcanon that in Valinor it was common to space kids out quite a bit, and it was overall pretty normal for couples to wait two or three centuries (sun years) between one child and the next. So most of the Feanorians in this fic were born when their older brothers were already grown  
> \- I attempted to make up a Quenya name for my version of Maglor's wife. I hope I succeeded, at this point I can't take any more linguistic research. The intended translation for her name will be in the end notes

As a child, Makalaurë did not have all that many friends. Not because of lack of others his age, because when he was born there were many other children around his age in Tirion. He didn't lack potential friends.

However, Makalaurë did not find it easy to get along with others. He was a remarkably shy child in his earliest years, and new people made him uneasy.

That isn't to say he grew up alone. There were a few others whose company he could enjoy, and of course he had his family. Had someone asked him who the best people in the world were, Makalaurë would have surely smiled in a way that showed a missing front tooth or two and said that it was his parents and his big brother.

His mother had given him his first harp, when Makalaurë had started showing interest in music. She was also the one who would take it away from him when he played so much his fingers blistered badly. She knew how to be stern, but she was also sweet, and caring. Her work had given her strong arms that could easily pick Makalaurë up even when he was already half-grown, and she only stopped once Makalaurë reached that age where it became more embarrassing than comforting.

One thing history forgot about Fëanáro, was that he had great love for his children, and there was a time when not even the forge brought him as much joy as spending time with them. He taught them all sorts of things, giving them the best education he could. When it became clear Makalaurë did, Fëanáro taught him everything about language, and rhymes and syllables and accents. His grey eyes shone with pride when Makalaurë started making his own songs.

And then there was Maitimo, best of brothers and friends.

Maitimo was not much older than Makalaurë, by Noldor standards. He had still been in his adolescence when Makalaurë was born, and since the first day he had made it his duty to look after his younger brother. He took care of Makalaurë when their parents were busy with work, helped him with his lessons if Makalaurë did not understand something, showed him how to ride a horse and how to shoot a bow. They had their little arguments, at times, as siblings are bound to, but Makalaurë knew Maitimo was always there to listen to him.

Maitimo was the first person to whom Makalaurë told of the way he did not like to dress in a feminine fashion, and how it always made him uncomfortable when people used the title "Princess" with him, and how he liked his mother-name better because his father-name was too feminine. It was Maitimo that Makalaurë went to, after their mother had explained him the ways his body would change as he grew, and Makalaurë wanted to cry because did not want to grow that way, and he did not understand why the thought of breasts made him cry in the first place. It was Maitimo who helped Makalaurë make sense of his own feelings, even if they were feelings Maitimo himself had never experienced. He held Makalaurë's hand when Makalaurë went to tell their parents that he may not be female, after all.

Nerdanel hugged him then, and apologized, confessing that she had been surprised when she had been told she had given birth to a girl, when she had been absolutely convinced she had been bearing another boy for her whole pregnancy. Three days later, she had found a healer that told Makalaurë about some herbs he could take. Medicaments that would make his body more masculine.

Fëanáro said having two sons made him just as happy as a son and a daughter, and he even offered to give Makalaurë a new father-name if he wished for it. Makalaurë accepted, and he became Kanafinwë, and Fëanáro made it clear it would not be tolerated for anyone to disrespect this. In following days, Nerdanel would joke Makalaurë must have made Fëanáro overjoyed in giving him an excuse to name him a second time, because everyone knew how much Fëanáro liked finding new names and words for everything.

Kanafinwë was a good name, one Makalaurë liked far more than his old one. He kept using his mother-name more, however. He was used to it, and besides, Maitimo also always used his mother-name, and Makalaurë had always been trying to emulate his brother back then.

It was far easier to let go of his childhood shyness, when it was declared he was a Prince of the Noldor and not a Princess. It made him more confident. By the time he reached the age of adulthood, any memory of the fact Makalaurë had once been regarded as a girl had been wiped away by the praise his music received. Still unrefined, lacking experience in his young age, but people said that without a doubt Makalaurë would one day become one of the greatest musicians of the Noldor.

He didn't have his father's pride and fiery spirit, nor his brother's easy confidence that made him easily liked by everyone, but that didn't mean Makalaurë wasn't a proud son of the House of Finwë.

***

The first time Makalaurë had any interaction with a younger family member, it was with his first cousin. Nolofinwë had thrown a great feast to celebrate his firstborn, and Fëanáro had been invited as well. Fëanáro had never made it a secret that he didn't have much affection for his half-siblings, and Nolofinwë was more often than not the target of his irritation when it came to the children of Indis. However, that family feud was not yet so deep as to make him refuse the invitation.

It was possibly the greatest feast Makalaurë had been in until that moment. Even the marriage party for Nolofinwë's marriage, a few years prior, paled compared to the one his uncle had for his son. It was near overwhelming to Makalaurë, who resolved to stay near close to his relatives for the duration of it.

Maitimo quickly declared himself uninterested in their cousin. Newborns did not particularly fascinate him, not to mention he and Nolofinwë had had a small quarrel recently, and after his round of congratulations he went to chat with other guests. Fëanáro also did not spend much time with his nephew. Nerdanel and Anairë seemed almost relieved that their respective husbands had seemingly decided to keep their distances from one another past the due pleasantries.

Makalaurë, on the other hand, thought small children were terribly adorable, regardless of who the parents were. He also couldn't say he had a particularly deep love for Nolofinwë, but any disdain his father had put in him did not extend to little Findekáno. He had big blue eyes that looked at everyone with curiosity, and gave everyone around him happy, toothless smiles. Anairë was surprised at having Fëanáro's youngest son around, but she graciously allowed him to dangle his fingers in front of the baby to see him laugh.

Even when Findekáno decided it was time to be fed and made everyone around him flinch with his wails, Makalaurë thought he had been quite charming.

After that, however, Makalaurë had little dealings with his cousin for a long time. Not being very passionate about family feuds didn't mean they didn't exist. He had rarely visited his grandfather's house in the past few years, the one place where it would have been most likely for him to run across one of the Line of Indis.

Besides, at the time Makalaurë had begun to truly establish his name of singer, and he would often travel outside of Tirion to learn and to show his skills. If he saw Nolofinwë or Findekáno at all, it was only in passing at some social gathering.

It got to the point that one day he and Maitimo were greeted by someone at a party, and it took the both of them a minute to realize that it was Findekáno. Makalaurë hadn't seen his cousin since the boy had just started to reach adolescence, and Maitimo in longer than that. Neither of them had at first recognized the handsome, well-dressed young man in front of them, much to Findekáno's amusement, who wasted no occasion to tease them for it for the rest of his days.

***

Afterwards, Makalaurë did not have a shortage of children to deal with. It was as if the birth of Findekáno had opened the floodgates of some family competition where all the sons of Finwë tried to outdo each other with the amount of babies they brought to the world.

About four years after Findekáno's birth, Nerdanel got pregnant once again. Makalaurë at first could barely believe that a child, a younger sibling, was growing inside his mother. He knew it was happening, but couldn't quite wrap his mind around it, until the day Nerdanel told him to place his hand over her belly and he felt movements within. His little siblings, she told him, had recently discovered how entertaining it was to kick.

Tyelkormo earned himself his name by deciding to explore the world two weeks before due. Nerdanel had sitting at the kitchen table, peeling some potatoes for dinner, when suddenly she let out a string of curses and said one of the men of the house should go call a midwife.

Tyelkormo further surprised them by being born with silver hair, rather than dark or red as it was expected. Children born with that shade of light hair were fairly common amongst the Teleri, but very rare when it came to the Noldor.

What truly amazed Makalaurë, however, was how small his brother was when he held him. Nerdanel's belly had been so big in the last stages of her pregnancy, and yet the baby nearly disappeared in the sleeved of Makalaurë's robes.

"Was I this small too?" he asked Maitimo in a whisper, afraid of disturbing little Tyelkormo, who had just fallen asleep.

"Maybe," Maitimo said, "but I was also smaller when you were born, so perhaps you looked bigger to me."

Maitimo was still not particularly charmed by infants, but it was different when the infant was his brother. Makalaurë could almost hear Maitimo mentally swearing to himself that he would do anything to protect this child, and Makalaurë was thinking the same.

In following years, it became clear Tyelkormo had a rather different temperament than Makalaurë. He was loud, reckless, confident to the point of near arrogance, and utterly unable to sit still for more than two minutes. Maitimo, who enjoyed riding more than Makalaurë did, ended up spending much more time with Tyelkormo, who after being introduced to horses could not be parted from them without a struggle. He would ride for entire days, only coming home when both he and his horse were so tired they could barely walk.

Not that Makalaurë did not have some common ground with his younger brother. Tyelkormo liked to dance, and Makalaurë liked to indulge him by playing fast and catchy melodies to see his brother laugh and have fun.

Soon after Tyelkormo, came Carnistir. He was born exactly the day he had been meant to, and greeted the world by screaming his rather impressive lungs out. Makalaurë was immediately given the role of nanny whenever he was around, having previously shown that he had a talent for children.

There was also the fact little Carnistir developed a passion for pulling people's hair while he was being held, and Makalaurë's dark hair was the least interesting to him. He much preferred to play with Maitimo's, or Tyelkormo's, who could barely hold him without having their braids pulled.

Carnistir also had a frankly excessive amount of freckles and a perpetual pout. The pout would, one day, become a scowl that could have most people cower in fear, but at the time it was adorable. Less adorable was how loud and deafening his crying could be. Fëanáro said this had to be either another singer, or some kind of preacher.

Maitimo jokingly called him their little fiend. Tyelkormo agreed on the nickname, but less jokingly. Makalaurë thought they were both just rude. Carnistir could be very good company. He didn't apparently have a filter to his mouth, which made some people think he was quite rude, and he could be fearsome when angered, but one just had to know how to take him. He was an avid reader, and Makalaurë would sometimes have long conversations about the things Carnistir had read. Even after Carnistir's favorite kind of books moved away from the tales Makalaurë also loved, and towards matters of practical nature, such as law.

What child finds discussing taxes interesting, Makalaurë had no idea. He was beginning to believe those who shook their heads and said the Line of Míriel was the line of strangeness were right.

When Makalaurë's third younger brother was born, and Fëanáro said what his father-name would be, all four of his grown children groaned.

"Truly, father? Curufinwë, son of Curufinwë?" Maitimo asked.

Fëanáro nodded. "Yes."

Tyelkormo turned to their mother. "And you will let him?"

"I don't see a reason not to," Nerdanel said. "One name for him, one name for me. He can choose anything he pleases."

"I do hope your name will be better," Carnistir said.

Nerdanel hummed, looking down at the baby suckling at her breast. "I think... Atarinkë. Yes, Atarinkë is good."

"You want to name him Atarinkë?"

All four of them shared a disbelieving glance. It was true that the child was the image of their father, even then it was clear they would have been near identical once the child had grown, but this seemed excessive. Makalaurë and his brothers had long since accepted their father could be eccentric, but their mother usually had better sense.

Then, Curufinwë grew, and it was not excessive anymore. If anything, it was almost unsettling. The only thing he had taken from their mother was her eyes, bright blue rather than grey, but other than that he was the picture of Fëanáro. Same hair, features, same facial expressions, even the way they moved was similar.

When the child began to run in and out of the forge, begging all the smiths in their family to teach him, no one had anything else to say about the naming choice.

The greatest difference that existed between father and son was that Curufinwë was much more reserved and thoughtful, rarely acting on impulse the way their father did. Fëanáro was a public figure, almost always present at any gathering. Curufinwë would have lived entirely in his forge, had it been up to him.

The other great difference was that Curufinwë did not hold any animosity for his siblings. He was, out Fëanáro's sons, the one who most shared his disdain for the Line of Indis, but for his own brothers Curufinwë only had affection. He was especially close to Tyelkormo, who would often go wrangle him out of the forge and drag him to spend time outside. The process had many times involved Tyelkormo physically picking Curufinwë up and merrily walking off, as their brother struggled and flailed.

Fëanáro's house was always full of noise, be it Makalaurë's music, Carnistir's shouts, Tyelkormo's laughter, or their mother's occasional outbursts, filled with words none of her sons would ever repeat in her presence. It was a music of its own, to Makalaurë, one that brought him more happiness than many of the great songs.

***

A downside of being part of the royal family was that people assumed it was their right to poke their noses into everything that concerned Fëanáro's sons. Not caring about what others thought was a lesson they had all had to learn since childhood, but it did not make the gossip less annoying.

A popular topic of conversation was whether Makalaurë or his brothers would marry soon. Once, people had been more concerned about the children of Finwë, but now that many of the grandchildren were also of age the focus had shifted to them. People also loved to offer their opinions on who they thought would be a good match as well.

Some thought it would be good for them to marry with the children of one of the members of Finwë's council. Others advocated with marriages with members of the Vanyar or the Teleri, in order to further strengthen the diplomatic relationships. Some even suggested that someone of the Line of Indis should marry someone of the Line of Míriel, in order to fix the feuds.

Makalaurë found them all horrible ideas. Those who said one of them should marry into Finwë's council were coincidentally almost always member of that council themselves. Many of those who said a diplomatic marriage would be good were the same people who had had many negative things to say back when Arafinwë had announced he was marrying a Teleri princess.

As for the Line of Indis, it was perhaps better not to even start with that. Makalaurë doubted he would have ever stopped recoiling from the time he heard someone suggest Maitimo should consider marrying Lalwendë, given they were both unmarried and close in age.

Both Fëanáro's and Nerdanel's advice to their sons in the matter, had been to find someone who made them happy, whoever that person may be. Disregard expectations and others' opinions, and only wed one they believed was right for them. And that was what Makalaurë intended to do, when the time came.

If, the time came. He was not a stranger to the concept of romance. He was a musician, after all, knowledge of love came with the profession. He had been enamoured a few times, brief periods that passed without anything coming from them other than some inspired songwriting. He had yet to meet someone who could truly captivate his heart.

Being, as his brothers teased him for, a hopeless romantic, Makalaurë was beginning to wonder when he would at last find someone. True love seemed to him a beautiful thing, and he wished to find someone who would share it with him.

"Do not rush these things. One day, you'll find the right person," Nerdanel told him, when Makalaurë confessed his worry to her.

"I am already thrice the age father was when you married," Makalaurë replied. "Many others my age have already found love."

His mother huffed. "And people said we had been going too fast, and that we were too young to marry. Don't be hasty, that is Tyelkormo's job."

Hastiness had not made Tyelkormo find a spouse any faster than Makalaurë. In fact, it was a small comfort for him to know he was not the only son of Fëanáro that had not found anyone yet.

Maitimo, being the firstborn, popular, and handsome, had had many suitors through the years, but not one had yet been to his tastes. Some people shook their heads at him, saying he should have been long married at his age, but he did not care. Marriage wasn't in his priorities.

Tyelkormo had a fair amount of interest in the idea of romance, but he was also far better at dealing with animals than people. He had had a few brief but rather dramatic stories, all of which ended with him getting drunk with his brothers and wondering what he had done wrong. Carnistir liked to say perhaps next time would work better, if only Tyelkormo managed to wash the smell of horse off himself.

Carnistir himself had no interest in marrying. He found romance frivolous, and the idea of a partner unappealing. Makalaurë sometimes wondered how were the two of them related.

Curufinwë was usually too busy working to talk to other people, and when he did talk, it was usually about wires and metals and discussions on what the best temperature to work with a certain material was.

Overall, Makalaurë sometimes wondered if the Line of Míriel would end with him and his brothers. He probably wasn't the only one to wonder, given how many times grandfather Finwë had already asked if he would be seeing any great-grandchildren soon. He never made it sound like an accusation, but it felt like it.

Through all of this, Makalaurë had always assumed that if one of them were to marry soon, it would have been him or Maitimo, or at most Tyelkormo, if he started being more thorough with the soap.

It was then a great shock, the day when Curufinwë told them that he had fallen in love, and intended to begin a courtship. He wasn't as young as their parents had been, but still on the young side for marrying. He announced it one evening as they had dinner together, and both Makalaurë and Carnistir nearly choked on their food.

Her name was Vanien. She came from a renown family of healers, and she had met Curufinwë to commission some jewels. She had thought perhaps there were ways to enchant objects to promote healing, and had come looking for one of the best smiths she could think of.

Curufinwë had immediately been infatuated, and it had soon become clear that the feeling was mutual.

When he met her, Makalaurë had to agree she was lovely. The daughter of a well-known Noldor family, who had had many people sing praises of her beauty, a good conversationalist and very earnest when it came to her job.

She and Curufinwë were happy together. Her parents were overjoyed she would catch the eyes of a Prince, and both Fëanáro and Nerdanel had approved of Curufinwë's choice. A courtship was initiated, and it wasn't long before the two announced the engagement. Most of Tirion had been invited to the feast that had been thrown for it.

"Can you believe he's about to marry?" Makalaurë said to Tyelkormo towards the end of it. They sat together at a table, empty cups in front of them, and Makalaurë was suspect he had had too much to drink.

Tyelkormo shook his head. His eyes were unfocused. "No."

Makalaurë shook his head as well, and the world spun around him.

"He can barely talk to people and he wooed a girl! It's unfair!" Tyelkormo said.

"He was a child two, two days ago." He was so young. It felt like yesterday that Makalaurë had been teaching him how to walk, holding his baby brother's chubby hands as he struggled to stand up.

Tyelkormo groaned. "He's still a child."

Curufinwë was a whole head taller than Makalaurë, his body strong with muscle, his hands perpetually covered with burns and callouses, and yet what Tyelkormo said made a lot of sense. It was impossible for Curufinwë to be already old enough to marry. He was only- How old was his brother again? Makalaurë's mind was not in the state to handle numbers.

His eyes widened in drunken realization. "He will have children too."

Tyelkormo stared at him. "He will have children too," he repeated.

"Children. Many small- small Curufinwë."

"Will they also be called Curufinwë?" Tyelkormo asked.

Makalaurë considered the question. "Maybe just- just one? You can't name them all the same, right?"

Tyelkormo blinked at him in what may have been confusion or understanding or anything else. "We'll be uncles, brother," he said.

"Uncles," Makalaurë repeated, and he grinned. He had never been an uncle before. It could be fun.

"Are my dearest brothers having fun?"

Curufinwë himself had stopped next to their table.

"Curvo!" Tyelkormo shouted. "You will have children!"

"We will be uncles," Makalaurë said once again.

Curufinwë did not seem impressed. "I'm not even married yet."

"Curvo!" Tyelkormo drawled out the name. He stood up, almost making his chair fall, and pulled Curufinwë in a hug. "You're all grown up!"

"I think you had enough to drink for today."

"And you have not?" Tyelkormo asked, as if the suggestion was outrageous. "You need a drink, then!"

"No, I don't."

"I'm getting you a cup, Curvo!"

"You can't even walk by yourself!"

In truth, it was a long time before Curufinwë and Vanien had a child.

She had trouble conceiving. Sadly ironic, considering she herself was an expert in caring for the body. Only after taking some strong cures she was able to get pregnant.

Tyelperinquar was a wonderful child. He took after his father in looks, but thankfully Curufinwë had enough sense to not make him Curufinwë the Third. He also took from his father in that Curufinwë had to start locking the door of his forge to prevent his son from sneaking in and hurting himself.

Makalaurë's nephew was also a very kind child. Most of his first creations he gave as a gift to someone else. Curufinwë and Vanien quickly gained a whole collection of necklaces and bracelets and rings. Somewhat crude, at first, but Tyelperinquar was a very fast learner.

Both Curufinwë and Fëanáro were beyond proud. Makalaurë was too, even if he did not have that kind of appreciation for smithing. A few months after the boy was allowed to start making his own things in the forge, Tyelperinquar gave Makalaurë a ring that was a little lopsided, and Makalaurë wore it as one of his most prized jewels.

***

At some point, Makalaurë gained a cousin.

It should not be a strange thing to say. He had two uncles, both of which had various children. Yet in his family, for a family member to simply exist, did not mean that they were truly family.

He had heard Findaráto had been gaining a certain renown in Alqualondë for his singing. Not one of the best, but he had some undeniable talent. Makalaurë, who was the best in Tirion, and one of the best in Valinor, decided he wanted to hear for himself how good at that cousin of his gotten.

On a time when Findaráto was in Tirion, Makalaurë decided to find him. He knew his cousin favored walking amongst the gardens, and went to look for him there.

He found Findaráto reading a book, sitting at the shade of a tree. Makalaurë had done a much better job at keeping track of what his relatives looked like after that embarrassing moment Findekáno would not let him forget about, but Findaráto would have been easy to recognize even had Makalaurë never looked at him. There were only so many heads full of gold in Tirion.

"Good morning, cousin," Makalaurë said, stopping near him.

Findaráto raised his head, appearing confused, before recognizing who was talking to him and smiling. "Now this is a rare sight. It's been a long time since I've chatted with one of the Line of Míriel. Not since that time your brother and our cousin almost drunkenly came to blows over city planning last year."

Makalaurë remembered that time. Carnistir and Turukáno both had very strong opinions on what the most efficient way to create a street layout. It had taken both Findaráto and Maitimo to break that specific fight. Carnistir had been banned from getting drunk at parties ever since.

"I assure I have no intention of hitting you," Makalaurë said.

"I always known you as the least likely to start a fight out of your brothers, so I believe you. Please, sit," Findaráto said, patting the ground next to him. "What is it you came to me for, then?"

"I heard that you have gotten some renown as a singer. I would like to hear it."

Findaráto laughed. "Is this competition?"

"Curiosity, mostly," Makalaurë said. "But there is some competition too."

"Should I take this as yet another trial to see whether the Line of Míriel is better than that of Indis?"

"No, only one between Makalaurë and Findaráto."

Findaráto seemed amused. Makalaurë wondered if his cousin was the competitive person. He had to admit he knew very little of him, and not only because of their familial issues. Findaráto was much younger than Makalaurë was, closer to Curufinwë in age. Add to that the fact Arafinwë's family split their residence between Tirion and Alqualondë, and Findaráto and Makalaurë simply had never had many occasions to be around each other.

"Do you have some time, cousin?" Findaráto asked.

"If you do."

While Findaráto was indeed good, he was predictably not on Makalaurë's level. He had some talent, Makalaurë had to give it to him, but his voice needed some refinement. Findaráto did not seem to take his loss to heart, accepting defeat fairly.

After that, the two of them began meeting every once in a while, to discuss music at first, and later just to converse. Findaráto was charming in a calm, relaxed way, wholly different from the exuberant confidence most of their family had. He had a good sense of humor and he was quick with his words. While he was a Prince of the Noldor, he did not give the title much importance, claiming that with all the children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren of Finwë running around the Noldor had more princes than they knew what to do with.

The fact that he enjoyed Findaráto's company was more of a surprise than it should have been. Makalaurë hadn't realized himself how much his father's opinion of the Line of Indis had been influencing him.

Of course, Fëanáro found out that the two of them were meeting occasionally. Not that Makalaurë had been trying to keep it a secret. It was nothing shameful for two cousins to be friends.

"He's a good singer," Makalaurë said, as explanation.

Fëanáro had huffed haughtily. "Certainly not as good as you."

"Of course not, father," Makalaurë had replied.

Fëanáro's frown had eased at that. "Good." And with that, the discussion had ended.

Sometimes Makalaurë wondered if his father would ever tire of this strife. He doubted there would truly ever be peace between Fëanáro and his siblings, but perhaps he would at least loosen up when it came to his nephews.

At least he had not thrown as much of a fuss as he had when Maitimo and Findekáno had started befriending each other. He had endlessly nagged Maitimo about that, demanding to know what was so special about the Nolofinwë's firstborn and why would Maitimo choose to be in his company. It had taken multiple arguments with Maitimo and Nerdanel both to make Fëanáro accept it. Makalaurë wondered if Maitimo's refusal to break his friendship with their cousin despite their father's displeasure had paved the way for a better relationship between the two branches of the family.

Or perhaps Fëanáro had not reacted as badly to the idea of Makalaurë spending time with Findaráto because Findaráto was Arafinwë's son, not Nolofinwë's. While neither had Fëanáro's love, proud and headstrong Nolofinwë had always angered Fëanáro more than peaceful Arafinwë.

***

To say that no one had expected Nerdanel to get pregnant again would have been a great understatement.

The time breaks between the birth of her sons had never been a particularly great one. When for many, many years Nerdanel had not gotten pregnant again, everyone had assumed she and her husband had tired of children. All couples reached that point sooner or later, and most did so before having five sons.

For a couple to decide to have another after so long, it was very rare. For a family to have six children was rarer still. Makalaurë couldn't think of any family he knew personally that was that numerous.

Seven children, that was nearly unheard of. Makalaurë had thought his mother had looked bigger than she had during previous pregnancies, but he had assumed there years were making him misremember. Not even Fëanáro could disguise his shock when Nerdanel told them she was expecting twins.

Not that anyone was displeased by this. Makalaurë was delighted. He loved all of his brothers, and he knew he would love the two coming as well.

Fëanáro was also beyond happy. He had also begun hovering, becoming more and more concerned with how Nerdanel felt as she grew bigger and bigger. Nerdanel eventually threw an apple at him and told him to quit it, as she had already done this five times already and knew how to care for herself better than he did.

The only one who was perhaps as stressed as Fëanáro was Curufinwë, who had never been an older brother before and had been convinced he never would.

The twins were born within a few minutes from one another, both screaming at the top of their lungs. Nerdanel was left completely exhausted. Right after making taking a good look at her children, she handed them to Fëanáro and asked to be allowed to rest, leaving the rest of her family to deal with new additions.

They quickly discovered the twins wanted to be held together. Their father took it upon himself to cradle both babies in his arms and rock them to sleep.

"It seems Russandol is no longer the only one to have inherited your mother's hair," Fëanáro said.

Makalaurë, looking down at the babies, ran a finger over a small head. His brother squirmed in his sleep at the touch. A few thin, copper strands could already be seen.

"Now Tyelko is the only one who needs a match," Maitimo said.

"Tyelkormo will remain unmatched, I fear," Fëanáro said. "Your mother said she has gotten her fill of children."

Maitimo snorted. "She was already saying that when Tyelkormo was born, and look how many times she changed her mind."

"This is truly the last time."

"Really?" Makalaurë asked.

Fëanáro raised an eyebrow. "There are seven of you. How many more brothers could you possibly want?"

As if to make a point, the older twin was named Pityafinwë, and the younger Telufinwë. Just to reiterate the fact that there would be no more of them. As for Nerdanel, she said she could name them both Ambarussa, as it fit, and having the same name would prevent anyone from using the wrong name if they happened to get confused. Fëanáro had to insist before she agreed to change the name of one.

Ambarussa still stuck as a name for them both, much to their father's dismay. It was so easy to mix up the two boys that it was simply the most convenient choice to call them the same name.

Naming problems aside, the twins were a delight. They were particularly close to Tyelkormo, with whom they shared a passion for hunting, but they nearly worshiped all of their older brothers. They were always trailing behind one of them like two identical ducklings, and even Carnistir couldn't deny that it was endearing. They even clung to Tyelperinquar when they could, their poor nephew never knowing what to do with his two younger uncles.

They even tried to pick up the harp to imitate Makalaurë. They weren't all that good at it, but Makalaurë still made it a point to teach them to the best of his abilities. It wasn't as if he'd get the chance of having younger siblings another time, after all.

***

It was a party to celebrate the end of the year. There was music, and dancing, and obviously Makalaurë too had been playing. He had a few new songs he had been saving for the occasion, and they were as expected a great success.

When his mouth begun to dry, he excused himself and went for a walk through the city. He ran across many other musicians, and gave advice and praise where it was due. He caught sight of some of his brothers and cousins, most of them engaged in dancing, or chatting, or drinking.

He didn't join them, preferring to walk on his own for a while. He did love to play for a receptive audience, but outside of that, Makalaurë didn't have that great an appreciation for crowds. Later, and after someone had handed him a cup of wine or two, he would join them in the celebrations, but for the moment he was happy to just wander on his own.

When Laurelin's light had begun to fade, he came across a small crowd gathered around a flute player. She did not seem to care much for the people around her, eyes downcast, completely focused on her music.

And a wonderful music it was. The melody was peaceful and serene as a mountain lake. Amongst the Noldor, music was most appreciated when it came with words, yet Makalaurë did not think the melody lacked anything. Rather, it was almost as if the music itself was speaking.

He caught sight of two twin heads of gold in the audience, and Makalaurë walked up to them. Findaráto seemed pleasantly surprised to see him, while his younger sister scowled at him. Makalaurë decided to ignore Artanis, knowing from experience she had neither love for the sons of Fëanáro nor fear of saying exactly what her opinion on them was.

"Amazing, isn't she?" Findaráto said, nodding his head towards the player.

"Do you know her?" Makalaurë asked.

"No. I heard someone call her Vílerë, but I have never heard her play before."

Makalaurë nodded, and the conversation ended.

When the music was over, and audience dispersing, Makalaurë walked up to her. "Your music is enchanting, my lady."

She looked up at him from the chair she sat on. Her eyes were a warm brown, only a shade lighter than her black hair. "Thank you, my lord," she said. Her voice was quiet, barely above a whisper. "But please, there is no need to call me a lady. I am no one but a musician."

"I am a musician too, so there is no need for you to call me lord," Makalaurë said. "I have never heard you play before. Are you new in Tirion?" Her features were definitely Noldor, but dark eyes and flute music were both more common amongst the Teleri.

"I have been here before, but I dislike playing for an audience."

She was crowd shy. She seemed more at ease now, talking to him, than she had been while playing. Makalaurë could understand that. He had also struggled to keep his composure in front of people when singing, back when he was young and still insecure of his skill. It had taken him much practice to overcome that nervousness.

"What convinced you to play, then?"

"My sister insisted."

"I shall thank them, then."

She stayed silent for a few seconds, as if in thought. "I heard you play as well, earlier. I understand why you are called the best singer in Tirion."

"Thank you."

They talked of music for a while. She was not one of many words, and her voice was always so low Makalaurë had to strain at times to hear it over the noises around them, but she seemed happy to discuss her interests. She knew how to play three types of flute, and learning one more. Her family was of woodworkers, and she had learnt to play from a wooden flute her father had made for her as a child. She played for herself, usually, or her family, and becoming famous wasn't something that interested her.

Makalaurë managed to convince her to play with him. Not in public, but in private, to practice. It wasn't often he met a musician of her talent.

He learnt more of her during their meetings. Her paternal grandmother was Teleri, and she had taken her eyes from her, but her family was culturally more Noldor. Vílerë was her mother-name. Her voice had always been that soft, ever since she could remember, but Makalaurë did not mind having to occasionally strain his ears a little to hear what she had to say.

She laughed little, but smiled often. She didn't like attention, but would quietly voice her opinions when needed. Sometimes she would lose herself in contemplation of something, her eyes unfocused and distant, fingers moving as if playing a song only she could hear. Her wistful silence were comforting in their way. She and Makalaurë would sometimes sit that way, both lost in the song of their own heads.

She was beautiful. Not the kind of beauty that took one's breath away, nor Artanis's blinding light or the classical features of Noldor's beauty of Curufinwë's wife. Vílerë would by most be described as pretty, but nothing special. Yet the more time passed the more Makalaurë found himself stealing glances at her, getting lost in the depths of her eyes or the sweetness of her smile.

He was no stranger to passing enamourement, but he found his interest in her did not fade. It grew and grew, until he would find himself counting the days before their next meeting mere hours after they had parted.

When he realized he had fallen for her, he did not know what to do. He had spent decades, centuries even, longing for someone he loved, and now that it had happened he did not know what to do. He had, if he were honest, almost despaired that he would ever truly find himself in love.

He needed advice. His closest confident had always been Maitimo, but his brother was far from an expert in this. Asking advice to his parents on how to best court someone was only asking for endless questions, ones that Makalaurë wasn't yet ready for. Findaráto was completely useless when it came to questions of romance, if whatever was happening between him and Amarië was indication, and Makalaurë wasn't on good terms with any other married member of the Line of Indis.

In the end, he did what was most logical, and went to grab Curufinwë and drag him away from the rest of their family to talk.

"You need me to tell you how to court someone?" Curufinwë asked, voice on the edge of laughter.

"You clearly know how to it, so."

"I have absolutely no idea how I did it. Are you not the one who always sings those terrible romantic songs?"

"Songs don't normally go into details," Makalaurë said. "Could you just answer me without mockery?"

"What kind of brother do you take me for?"

"A horrible one," Makalaurë murmured. He was already regretting his decisions.

Curufinwë's expression lost some of his amusement and turned more into fondness. "I gave her all sorts of gifts to show her I was interested. Compliments, too, I'm sure you can find some pretty words. Try to test the waters, see if she feels the same."

"How did you know she felt the same?"

"I didn't. Tyelkormo pointed it out to me."

"I would rather not ask Tyelkormo."

"Speaking from experience, it would not be a wise choice to ask him."

Makalaurë nodded. "Thank you for the advice. And I hope you understand this is meant to be a private matter between the two of us."

"May I tell my wife?" Curufinwë asked.

"If you must." The idea of Vanien and Curufinwë laughing about him in private was better than having the rest of their brothers learn of this. They would never let him hear the end of it if they found out Makalaurë had needed his younger brother to advise him in this.

Makalaurë was not a craftsman, and he could not make jewels or other pretty things for Vílerë. He considered asking Curufinwë to make a flute, which would surely be a welcomed present, but then decided to use his own strengths.

So, he crafted her songs. He could not remember the last time he had put so much effort into stringing words together and pairing them with the notes of his harp. He played them just for her, and she if she noticed how the lyrics seemed to gravitate towards love and union and dark eyes maidens, she did not say. He caught her occasionally, looking at him with a strange expression, but quickly averted her eyes when he noticed her.

One day, she came to him after a trip with her family with a flute he had not seen before. She played him a song he had never heard, and the meaning was clear even without words. Happiness, joy, perhaps love.

"I only recently mastered this type of instrument," she told him when the song was over. "I wanted to show you."

Makalaurë was considered a master of his words. Grand speeches did not come to him easily as they did to his father, but he could craft one that would make the very rocks listen to him if he wished. He had been working on one for weeks, and found many beautiful words, and yet all that came from his mouth was, "Vílerë, I love you. Would you allow me to court you?"

Her eyes widened slightly. "Court me? Are you saying you wish me to be your wife?"

Makalaurë's heart skipped a beat or four. "In the future, yes. For now, I would be content with courtship first."

"I admit I would have never thought once to be courted by a Prince," she said.

Makalaurë suspected that was what worried her the most. If they were to become officially involved, she would be surely thrown in the middle of everyone's attention. Many people had started to despair that Makalaurë or his brothers would find a match, after all those years, and it would be the greatest source of gossip for months if Makalaurë showed his interest in the little known daughter of woodworkers.

"I know you do not like to be seen, and that being courted by me would lead to much unwanted attention. But no one would dare truly bothering you. Besides, surely one of my brothers would soon cause some scandal to take attention off of us."

She nodded. "That is true."

"Is that a yes?" Makalaurë whispered, hopeful.

She smiled. "It would make me very happy if you courted me."

Courtship was a wonderful thing, but it was not that long before the two of them decided they wished to marry. Makalaurë's brothers teased him to no end, Nerdanel teared up a little, and after hearing her play a couple times Fëanáro also gave his approvation of Vílerë.

Her family was also happy. They were good people, living a quieter life without all the drama and grandeur that came with being nobles. Vílerë had received a few offers of courtship before, all of which went refused, and her family had started to think she had no interest in marriage at all. It make Makalaurë all the more honored that Vílerë would say yes to him. Vílerë's sister was herself married, and had a young child that immediately took to calling Makalaurë 'uncle'.

Of course, people talked. Some shook their heads at Makalaurë choosing a wife that was not of high social standing, but very few made their displeasure open. Makalaurë suspected his family had scared everyone into silence. Then, the Ambarussa put themselves in trouble in a bar fight, and attention shifted from Makalaurë.

The wedding ceremony was not as grand as they usually were in their family. Vílerë wouldn't have liked it, and Makalaurë didn't feel the need to make it a public affair. Their families were there, a few close friends, but nothing more.

Their marriage was perfect. Makalaurë had been so overjoyed, the first morning he had woken up with his wife in his arms, that a few tears had escaped him. She hadn't minded. She liked to see the more emotional parts of him, she had told him, the ones he had to keep in check in his public life.

If there was one thing that marred the marriage, was that they could not have children, as no amount of potions and herbs had given Makalaurë's body the ability to sire one. It saddened him, as he would have loved to have children of his own.

Regardless, Makalaurë could never call himself unhappy. He had a wife, a family he loved greatly, more family that he could tolerate, he was successful in his calling, and his life was blissful in all ways. He had no need to wish nothing would ever change, because everything in Valinor was as eternal and sweet as the light of the Trees.


	2. but all will pass, will end too fast, you know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the warnings you see in the tags apply to this chapter. It covers basically all the First Age, so, you know. Warning for all of that I guess. I've also chosen to go with the Silm version in which Amrod doesn't get burned at Losgar, for full disclosure.

Something had been changing in his father. Makalaurë could not say when it had started, and perhaps the change had been so slow it had been impossible to notice at first. But there was no denying now that something must have happened.

Fëanáro had never been an easy person to deal with. He had always been proud, and stubborn, and prone to become obsessed with whatever project he had on his mind. They were used to that.

But it had become worse. His eyes were as if fixed on something only he could see, and no one knew what. Even during conversation he never seemed truly present.

Makalaurë had left his parents' house after marrying, and so he saw his father less than he used to. His brothers, however, told him of how Fëanáro spoke little, and ate and slept less than he should, and kept himself locked in the forge the whole time. They had tried asking him what was he working on, but he kept it a secret, and no one was allowed in the forge. He and Nerdanel argued often, apparently, because Fëanáro refused to tell even his wife what was happening.

"She was crying, the other day," Maitimo told him. "I didn't see it, but her eyes were red and swollen."

Makalaurë could not think of a single time he had seen his mother cry.

Maitimo shook his head. "Whatever he's doing, it cannot be so important as to make her suffer so. I tried asking him so many times, but he lashes out as if I was trying to take his work from him."

One day, Fëanáro at last asked his wife, sons and grandson to all come to his house. They all gathered, uneasy, because Fëanáro acted stranger than ever. The ever present fire in his eyes looked ready to burst out of him and burn everything around.

He ushered them to the forge, and with reverence opened a beautifully carved wooden box. Something was wrapped in black cloth, but even that could not conceal a light coming from the objects it hid.

Makalaurë gasped, covering his eyes when the cloth was taken away. It was as if the Trees had appeared in the room, blinding him with their light.

Once his eyes grew used to it, he made out the shape of three shining gems, each a little smaller than his fist.

"What is this, father?" Curufinwë asked, awed.

"Silmarili, I call them," Fëanáro said. "Come closer, look."

Pure light, of gold and silver, danced within the gems. The Trees themselves, casted as jewels. Makalaurë didn't even dare touch them, for how beautiful they were.

After, as they all left with bright spots dancing in front of their eyes, Makalaurë heard his nephew speak to Curufinwë.

"I never saw anything so beautiful before," Tyelperinquar said. "Yet, for some reason, I feel as if grandfather should not have made them."

***

Nerdanel refused to come to Formenos. She and Fëanáro traded many screams and heavy words, and at last she stood her ground, and went back to Mahtan's house.

Makalaurë felt oddly numb hearing the news. It wasn't as if the divide between his parents hadn't been growing for years, now. And after the last few days, it was as if nothing could really surprise him. For all the tension, and rage, and hate that had grown, Makalaurë had never expected his father to raise a sword against Nolofinwë.

Things had taken a turn for the worse in the last years. Fëanáro had grown more secretive and paranoid than he had ever been, and the clash between him and his half-siblings had become harsher than ever. His face darkened at the mere mention of them. He viciously argued with all of his sons regarding their friendships with any of the Line of Indis.

The other side of the feud had also become harsher. Nolofinwë openly spoke badly of Fëanáro. Turukáno glared at the sons of Fëanáro if he saw them approaching, and Artanis would pick any excuse to get into vicious arguments with them. Makalaurë rarely saw Findaráto these days, and Findaráto told him Nolofinwë had tried to forbid Findekáno from meeting Maitimo and Irissë from riding out with Tyelkormo. The Ambarussa, who had before been friendly enough with Arakáno, had cut contacts with him now, saying that they had argued badly.

And there were voices, of Nolofinwë and Arafinwë conspiring against Fëanáro. Things Makalaurë had not wanted to believe, and knew now he should have not, for many of them had been spread by that liar Melkor.

Or so the Valar said, but Makalaurë did not know how much he could trust the Valar anymore. Why had they let Melkor roam free, when they knew his character? If Melkor could lie, couldn't the other Valar to the same?

And then they were exiled. Makalaurë did not agree with what his father had done. He had never believed in violence, and thought there must have been better ways to confront Nolofinwë than that.

But Fëanáro was his father, and Makalaurë was nothing if not a loyal son. If he were to be exiled with the rest of his family, then so be it.

***

The first corpse Makalaurë ever saw was Finwë's.

He had seen death before, but always in animals. Never in one of the Quendi.

Finwë laid on the doorsteps of his house. His face was unnaturally grey. The lights they had lit still somewhat reflected on the not yet dry blood beneath him.

No one dared to touch or move him. No one would have even known what to do with the body. They all stood as still as statue, eyes fixed on what was now nothing more than an empty shell. The silence was suffocating, until it was broken by the howling, anguished scream of Finwë’s first born.

***

"Go with Arafinwë," Makalaurë said. Saying the words was as if wrenching a piece of his heart out.

Vílerë looked at him with wide eyes. "What- why?"

"I know he will go back. He never wanted to leave Tirion, he loves peace far too much to follow us. Take your family, and go with him."

"Why, Makalaurë? Did your family not say you are not scared of the words of Mandos?" she asked.

Makalaurë shook his head. He was ready to defy Mandos, but it was other thoughts now that plagued his mind. He remembered the old stories he had heard as a child, of the place beyond the ocean. Beautiful, alluring, but there had been old fear in Finwë’s eyes when he spoke of old friends that had disappeared in the darkness and never came back.

"Wherever we go, whatever we find, it will not be safe. There are no doubts that the Enemy has all sorts of monsters and evils with him. There will be bloodshed, and I don't want you to see it."

Vílerë's face hardened. "Too late for that."

Yes, it was late. Fëanáro had ordered the killing of the Teleri, and Makalaurë had done it. Fëanáro was his father, and Makalaurë had to follow him. It had not been a good action, but they had needed those ships, at any cost. That was what Makalaurë tried to tell himself, hoping his thoughts would become louder than the ringing of steel that had not yet left his ears.

Vílerë had been angry. No screams, her voice could never reach that volume. Her eyes had hardened, and she had refused to share the tent with him that night. She had gone back to her sister and brother-in-law and niece.

"I know. But- this blood was of sailors taken by surprise. Whatever there is, on the other side of this sea, has weapons, and it waits for us."

"And so only those of us who are proficient with a sword may follow you? Shall all the others go back to the Valar, which you so love?" she said, harsh. She did not approve of the bloodshed, but Makalaurë knew she also wanted to see the place they had come from.

"I would rather have you here with the Valar than risking your life," Makalaurë said. His faith in them had been long shattered, but at least he knew, here there would be no fighting, no death anymore.

“If what is on the other side of the sea scares you, then why did you swear that Oath?”

Makalaurë flinched. “Because Morgoth has killed my father and stole what belongs to us. I must go, Vílerë. If I let this offense slide, then I would not be able to call myself son of Fëanáro anymore.”

“And did I not accept to be a daughter of Fëanáro when I married you?”

He sighed. “But you also have your own family to think of. If you come, so will your sister, and she is pregnant. She already struggled to make it this far, and this travel will be too dangerous for her and her child. And you, my wife, I do not doubt your strength, but I could not forgive myself if you were to end up in the way of harm because of me.”

Vílerë took a deep breath. "There is reason in your words, but I cannot wait in Tirion and wonder what has happened to you. Alone, and without doubt scorned by those who opposed you father's wishes."

Makalaurë's heart tightened in his chest. The thought of parting from her made him feel weak. Despite the arguments they had had recently, he still loved her as much as their wedding day. He did not know how long he would be without her if she stayed. He hated that he knew people would hold not love for her because of his actions. He couldn't even be sure they would ever reunite.

But better to be parted from her than see her in danger. Better that, than have her maimed or killed by a sword.

Better that, than have her endure more horrors than the ones already plaguing Makalaurë's mind.

"We will see each other again. When my Oath is fulfilled and Morgoth lost to the darkness, we will meet again. I swear it. And then I will tell you of all I have seen, of everything there is there."

"Makalaurë..."

"Go to my mother. I know she will welcome you. I know people may be angry at you for what your husband did, but..." But anger and scorn was better than death. She was strong of spirit, Makalaurë knew she could endure.

She closed her eyes, and leaned in to kiss him. Once, briefly, and not nearly long enough. "Hold to that promise as much as to your Oath, Kanafinwë," she said.

She never called him by his father-name. Being called Kanafinwë had never made his chest hurt as if he had been stabbed.

With every step she took away from him, Makalaurë's heart tore more.

He had not been able to confess her the depth of his fears, scared that speaking them out loud would have made them more real. He did not have the gift of premonition, but a certain amount of insight ran through his family, and he was sure, in that moment, that death would come to their people. Whose death, he could not say, but Vílerë was no warrior, and he could not risk her being involved.

***

That day, the body was not a problem. There was none, after all. Truly like their father, to leave them in such dramatic fashion.

One body less to deal with. So many of them had fallen during the fight with the Enemy's foul creatures. Too many. There had not been so many corpses in Alqualondë, and they hadn't been mutilated and maimed as they were now.

One of those- those- things, their bodies shaped not too differently from the Quendi and all the more horrible because of that, it had jumped Makalaurë from behind during the battle. It had bit his left ear, and the jagged teeth had torn the tip away before Carnistir had gotten the thing off of him. Makalaurë should find the healers, get the wound cleaned, but the healers already had so many to care for, and in worse state than he was.

He walked through the battlefield, numb. He did not know if the nausea he felt was because of the gore surrounding him or because of his father.

His father, strong, stubborn, prideful, now no more of a pile of ashes-

He could not even allow himself to grieve him. Maitimo had already taken control of the situation, face hard and emotionless, and had started giving orders. They had to collect the dead, find the wounded, get to safety. Their father was no more, and so they were the ones who had to get their people through this. It did not matter if Makalaurë wanted to scream and cry and despair. He could not, not now. He had been asked to help look for survivors, and he would.

"My lord!" A figure stopped in front of him. "My lord, your brother asked me to bring you to him."

"What is it?"

The other did not say. Makalaurë followed him to where the deads were being gathered. His heart leapt in his throat, but no, no, he had seen his brothers, they were alive. Shaken, wounded, but they all lived.

Ambarussa was waiting for him there, sitting on a stone. His arm was wrapped in bandages, his face ashen. He was wounded, but had refused to rest, and so Maitimo had told him to go and take charge of counting the dead.

"What's happening?" Makalaurë asked.

Ambarussa's eyes were shining with unshed tears. He stood up, stumbling, knees made weak by the loss of blood.

Makalaurë rushed to help him. "Telvo, you should truly get some rest."

His brother shook his head. "I'm alright. I'm..."

He did not say more, but led Makalaurë to one of the many bodies, his good arm wrapped around Makalaurë's shoulders.

They reached the corpse Ambarussa had wanted to show him, and Makalaurë's knees almost buckled under the combined weight of himself and his brother.

It was Vanien. Her unseeing eyes looked up at the sky. Her beautiful features were twisted in a grimace of fear and pain. She was missing a leg. She had never been a good warrior. She shouldn't have been on the battlefield.

Makalaurë's thoughts went back to Vílerë and he was grateful, so so grateful, that he had the foresight to ask her to stay.

"I know I should have called for Curufinwë and Tyelperinquar first," Ambarussa said, "but I didn't know how to tell them."

Makalaurë shook his head. He didn't know either. Their father had already been lost that day, and now Curufinwë would lose his wife, and Tyelperinquar his mother.

"I will call for them. You go sit down."

Tyelperinquar had been wounded, and Curufinwë was sitting with his son in the tents they had hastily built. He looked up at Makalaurë when he touched his brother's shoulders, and Makalaurë knew Curufinwë must have already known. He must have felt their bond of marriage snapping when she had lost her life. Makalaurë read it they way his brother closed his eyes upon hearing the news. There was not shock in Curufinwë's face, only pain.

"Her body is where Ambarussa is. I will stay with your son, if you wish to see."

Makalaurë sat by Tyelperinquar's bed, and held his hand as his nephew cried. He had not seen Tyelperinquar weep this way since well before he was tall enough to reach Makalaurë's waist.

***

They sent Findaráto as envoy. A smart choice. He had learnt diplomacy from Arafinwë, and Nolofinwë was smart enough to know that diplomacy was much needed here.

Makalaurë also knew they needed to regroup with Nolofinwë's people, if they wanted a chance, but he had not known how to. He was ashamed of having left them behind, burning the ships. His brothers did not make things easier, Carnistir and Tyelkormo openly against forming an alliance.

Maitimo would have known what to do.

"Cousins," Findaráto said, as he stood in front of them. He was thinner than Makalaurë remembered. His eyes were pure ice. "My uncle sent me with matters to discuss with out High King, and I would like to meet him."

Makalaurë took a deep breath. Of course, the two groups had had little contact between them since Nolofinwë's people had arrived. They did not know. "If you mean my father, he is dead."

"He is-"

"Yes."

Findaráto closed his eyes. "We had heard voices amongst the beasts of the Enemy, but we hadn't believed them. My deepest condolences."

Makalaurë nodded. Findaráto had not loved Fëanáro, had all the reasons to hate him by now, but he was a good person, not one who would ever be unmoved by death.

"We do not need pity," Carnistir sneered. He was the one with the most knowledge of the practical matters of ruling, and Makalaurë kept him at his side for advice. Unfortunately, diplomacy had never been Carnistir's strongest suit.

Findaráto glared at him, but did not speak. "Shouldn't your eldest brother have succeeded him, then? Where is he?"

"There is more you have not heard."

Findaráto's eyes widened. "Is Maitimo dead as well?"

"For his sake, that would be best," Carnistir murmured.

"Carnistir!"

"Don't chastize me, brother. We all know it's true."

"What are you talking about?" Findaráto asked.

Makalaurë took a deep breath. "Maitimo was ambushed. He was taken to the Enemy's stronghold, alive, but it has been a long time since then. He is- My brother is right. It would be best if he were dead."

"Have you not looked for him?"

Carnistir stood from his chair. "Are you saying we abandoned our brother to his fate?"

It would not be a lie.

"Carnistir, sit down."

Carnistir glared, but did as told. Makalaurë was King, now, for whatever it was worth.

His attention turned back to Findaráto. "Even if we take every Noldo in this land, we cannot hope to take Angband." Perhaps with the Sindar such an attack would be possible, but all negotiations with Thingol had failed. "And if we attempted a siege, Morgoth would surely kill Maitimo before we were able to break in. There was no way for us to take him back."

"And so now you are King," Findaráto said.

"So it seems." Dressed nicely, his hair well braided, a crown and a glamour that hid his mutilated ear. Makalaurë no doubt looked the part. "Unless you know of any way to bring my brother back."

It was nearly a plead. Please, cousin, tell me how to get Maitimo back. Find my brother, cousin, before I break under the weight of this crown. Makalaurë had never expected to be a King. He did not know how. No one was there to explain it to him, and he had never needed it more.

Findaráto did not know how to save Maitimo. But Findekáno did.

Makalaurë took a horse and rode to Nolofinwë's camp as soon as the news reached him. He could not believe it, but he wanted to. He did not even stop to greet his uncle when he arrived, only asked to be lead where his brother was.

Findekáno was by the bed. His blue eyes looked huge in his thin face. "He's alive, but he still hadn't woken up," he said when Makalaurë all but burst into the tent.

Maitimo's face was emaciated, so much one could almost see the outline of his skull. All of his visible skin was covered in burns, cuts and bruises, and scars of wounds that had not been properly treated. His nose was twisted, as if it had been broken, and his lips were cracked. His right shoulder was bent in a way that should not be possible, and his forearm ended abruptly, bandages where his hand should have been.

Makalaurë sobbed. His brother was alive. Broken and hurt and with a long recovery in front of him, but alive.

He only vaguely noticed Findaráto's hands on his shoulders, leading him to the chair next to the bed. "The healers said it will take him time, but he will heal. For the most part, at least."

For the most part. That hand would not grow back. The scars would not fade. Maitimo would never again be as handsome as he had once been. In a strange haze, Makalaurë thought Maitimo's mutilated ears now matched his.

But for the most part was better than nothing.

"Thank you," he said, his hands grasping for Findekáno's.

"You are welcome."

***

The years were both slow and fast. For a long time, he had nothing to do but sit in his fort and make sure no Orcs passed through. Elves were not prone to boredom, but there was an Oath that needed fulfilling, and it itched in the back of his mind.

Yet in those slow years, marked by the new Sun, things moved faster that they had ever had in Maglor's life.

Maglor. Everyone called him that now. Even his brothers. Sometimes Maglor almost forgot Makalaurë was also his name.

It sounded very different. Makalaurë was easy on the tongue, the syllabes flowed without interruption one after the other, almost musical. Maglor did not flow at all, a forced stop between the two syllables that was as a chokehold on the throat.

It fit his current state of being well. Some days Maglor felt as if something was choking him; not physically, although sometimes the smokes that crept down from the North made the air so heavy it was almost painful to breathe it. No, it was a mental, emotional suffocation.

There were days he struggled to get out of bed, days where he could feel nothing but exhaustion, heaviness, a sense of despair hanging over him. He had begun to become familiar with those feelings in his brief days of King before Mai- Maedhros, he wanted to be called Maedhros now, only Maedhros – had returned.

Now, ruler of nothing but a small force, those feelings still consumed him. They became more and more common as time passed. He was barely able to function, those days, only managed to push himself to because he had to make sure everything was alright with his people. He could barely even sing, even his once greatest pleasure now felt as another chore.

And then there was that strange longing that overcame him at times. Not longing for his old life, that one he was familiar with, he could recognize. It was different, it sprang upon him when he least expected it, becoming stronger and stronger. He didn't even know what for, only that he needed something.

The Silmarils, right. He only realized it after a good two hundred Sun years of it. It was the Silmarils that gave him that longing. The day they would reclaim them, this would all be over. Morgoth would be dead, their people would be in peace, he would go back to Vílerë and not have to worry about his brothers being killed.

His crushing, despairing mood came back to haunt him for near two months when Fingolfin died. More than grief for an uncle he was never close to, it was strategic thought that crushed him.

Fingon was a good successor to his father, and he had Maglor's sympathies for the role he had had to take, but Fingolfin had been a great King. Maglor had opposed Maedhros’s decision to give him the crown at first, but with the years he had had to concede that Fingolfin had been a good choice for the role. Now he was gone, and with him Angrod and Aegnor as well, three of their commanders in one battle.

Their strategic positions had also been compromised. Maglor lost his land, and so did Celegorm and Curufin. He had to retreat in Himring, where he and Maedhros clashed more than once when it came to making decisions on how to manage their forces.

In those days, Maglor would lie in bed unsleeping, wondering if they would ever be able to get the Silmarils back. He never told this to Maedhros, his brother already had enough concerns without Maglor's going to whine to him. He tossed and turned in his sheets, his chest feeling oppressed as if Thangorodrim itself was on it.

With the Silmarils, there would be peace. Without them, nothing would ever be fixed.

***

"Where are they," Maglor said.

Caranthir frowned. "Good afternoon to you too, brother. I had no idea you were coming to visit."

"I know they came to you, and I want to see them," Maglor said.

Caranthir swallowed, appearing unsure of what to do. Maglor had never been prone to anger, and this kind of barely restrained fury had almost never been seen on him. Maglor himself didn't remember the last time he had been so angry at his brothers.

"Caranthir. Take me to them."

Caranthir huffed. "This way," he said, with a hint of irritation. Maglor did not care about Caranthir's irritation, irritation had been Caranthir's default emotion for a good two centuries at least.

Celegorm and Curufin were discussing something in a hall. They both reaised their heads when they heard them coming, and straightened up when they saw Maglor.

"We did n-"

Maglor cut him off. "Maedhros wants me to tell you that the two of you are complete idiots, and if he had time to come here himself he would kick you for days. I want to know what were the two of you even thinking, assuming you were."

Curufin flinched. No doubts he had had forgotten the last time Maglor had ever used this kind of voice with him, if he ever had.

Celegorm, for his own part, had the gall to roll his eyes. "You're overreacting."

"Overreacting? The two of you put us in the worst diplomatic position we've ever been since father decided to make us leave Aman!"

"So what would you have done? Turn to the other side while the girl went to take a Silmaril for herself and her mortal paramour?" Celegorm asked.

Maglor grit his teeth. "I'm sure there would have been better ways to deal with this than sending Finrod to his death, turn Orodreth against us, kidnap Thingol's only daughter, and still not get your hands on that Silmaril!"

"Is it the death of Finrod that saddens you so?" Curufin asked, almost derisively.

Something within Maglor screamed. There was a time his brother would have never used that kind of tone with him, a time he would have never made light of someone's death, especially not someone who – like it or not – shared their blood.

Yes, the death of Finrod saddened Maglor greatly. They had been friends, once, and while their relationship had never been the same after the burned ships, they had still gotten along well in this continent. Maglor had cried when he had heard his cousin had walked to his death. He had not known the details at the time, had not known his own brothers had been partially responsible for how things had gone.

Now that he knew, they were going to hear his rage.

"Yes, it saddens me, and it saddens me even more that you two would send one who had let you stay at his own home to his death," he said. "And you know what else saddens me? That the two of you are still so lost in your useless machinations that you cannot even see what you did wrong." Celegorm opened his mouth, but Maglor ignored him. "We just lost one of our strongest allies, not to mention the only person who could have possibly interceded with Thingol for us after the mess you caused. Maedhros had spent the last weeks trying to find a diplomatic standing with Fingon, and he isn't pleased about this ether. What of everything you did will help us retrieve the Silmarils, tell me."

"I've tried telling them. They don't listen," Caranthir said, from the corner he had retreated to.

Celegorm turned to him. "Hear, our greatest diplomat that everyone loves. Except Dwarves, half of the Men, and about the same number of Elves."

"You can argue about it later," Maglor said. "Now. Explain it to me. What was the point of kidnapping Luthien?"

Celegorm crossed his arms. "She would have been useful in a bargain."

"So Thingol could have given us the Silmaril in exchange for his daughter, admitting that he even got it in the first place, and then move war on us?"

There was silence for a few seconds. Curufin pointedly did not look at Maglor, in a way that made Maglor realize there was more to this than he knew. Celegorm seemed to consider his options for a moment, and then said, "Thingol would not have moved war on a relative."

Maglor's thoughts halted. "A relative?" he repeated.

"Celegorm thought he could have gotten Luthien's hand," Curufin explained.

Maglor could only stare at Celegorm, speechless. "She's the most beautiful being that walks these lands. Strong, too. Surely she wouldn't have find me worse than some wild Man," Celegorm said. There was some kind of twisted anger in his words, as if he couldn't accept that a girl would find a mortal more attractive than him.

"You kidnapped her, because you found yourself enamoured by her beauty, and would have forced her to marry you?" Maglor asked, not sure he understood. Not sure he wanted to.

"Forced is a big word. I'm sure given some time she would have gotten over that Man and learnt to find me-"

Maglor did something he had never dreamt of doing before. He hit his brother. Celegorm had not expected the blow aimed at his face. Surprise had to be what made him stumble backwards, for he had always been stronger in body than Maglor was. He raised one hand to his cheek, finding a cut Maglor's rings had left. His eyes widened, and for a second all Maglor saw was a betrayed child who could not believe his brother had hurt him.

Then those eyes darkened in anger, but before he could act Maglor step forward, and grabbed Celegorm by the ear. A gesture similar to a parent scolding a child, but with enough strength in it to truly hurt.

"What did you do to her? Did you kiss her? Caress her, or anything of the sort?"

Celegorm snarled. "What do you mean?"

Maglor's grip tightened. "Answer me. Did you at any time touch her body against her will, Tyelkormo?"

The use of his Quenya name had Celegorm flinch. "I treated her as any prisoner."

"Is that a no?"

"I haven't kissed, touched her, or anything else!" He bared his teeth to Maglor like an angered beast. "I waited for her to come to me!"

Only then did Maglor let him go, and immediately Curufin and Caranthir were between them, keeping them apart.

To force oneself on another was nearly unheard amongst them. That kind of intimacy was sacred. No Elf would ever commit such a crime, and all of them had been horrified to learn that it happened amongst Orcs and even Men. Had Celegorm actually forced himself on Luthien, Maglor would not have been able to control his actions.

"Is there anything else you want to tell us, brother?" Curufin asked. His voice was ice cold. He had one hand on Celegorm's chest, apparently the only thing preventing him from attacking Maglor.

An ice statue and a barely contained beast. That was what his brothers were now. It made the anger in him burn all the more painful.

"No. I would ask you to greet Celebrimbor for me, but I heard you and your son do not get along lately," Maglor said.

He regretted it the moment he said it. It had tore his heart to know Celebrimbor had cut ties with their family. Even worse it must have been for Curufin, to have his own son turn against him.

But no expression passed over Curufin's face, except maybe a certain disdain.

Maglor turned and left.

"Brother!"

Caranthir's voice reached him when Maglor was almost at the gates.

"What is it?"

"Where are you going?" For once in the past few decades, Caranthir did not sound anrgy or petulant. It seemed Maglor's lecture hadn't just hit the intended targets.

"I'm leaving."

"Will you at least stay the night?"

Maglor stopped. He was still furious, but he was tired. He had come here as fast as possible, and both he and the soldier who had escorted him needed rest. It would be dangerous to go back on the road now.

"Just the night. But I will not speak with them again."

He could not face his brothers anymore. Maglor loved them, he would always loved them, but they had crossed a line. Their actions had been selfish, cruel and reckless, and they did not even see the fault in them. Maglor had never been able to hold on to his anger for long, but he did not know how to forgive them yet.

Sitting in the room Caranthir had given him, elbows on the desk and face buried in his hands, Maglor tried to understand what had gone so wrong. The war had changed them all, but he refused to believe it was the sole responsible for the way his brothers had turned.

Celegorm, he had always been reckless and temperamental, but he had never been cruel. He had always taken his losses in love fairly, quick to forgive and forget if the object of his interest did not feel for him as he did. Maglor remembered the way he had raged, when they had found out why no one had seen Aredhel for years, what kind of person Celegorm's favorite cousin had married.

Curufin had always resented the Line of Indis, but he had never gone so far as to put one of them into direct danger of death. And he had loved his son, had come to his brothers distressed and asking for help when Celebrimbor had become closed off from him after Vanien's death.

Maglor could barely recognize them anymore.

He barely recognized himself. Once, he would have never dreamt of raising a hand against his own brother.

Anger bled away, leaving space to shame. His relationship with all of his brothers had become strained, they spoke rarely and argued often. If Maglor had been closer to them, maybe he would have seen what was happening to Celegorm and Curufin earlier, maybe he would have been able to help them, correct them, before it came down to this.

***

The battle had been a disaster. So many of their people had been lost. Yet another King had been taken.

Maglor grieved. Fingon had been a good person, loyal and just and capable of laughing even in the eternal battlefield Beleriand had become. He had saved Maedhros, and for that alone Maglor would always be grateful to him. He had been one of the only cousins they had left, the only one who still held some love for the sons of Fëanor.

Maglor despaired. Fingon had ruled well, but now the title went to Turgon, and Maglor couldn't think of a worst person. He was sure Turgon knew how to govern, if the rumors of Gondolin's prosperity were true, but he also never left Gondolin at all, and he had never hidden his dislike of the sons of Fëanor.

The loss cemented Morgoth’s power, and the distance that separated them from the Silmarils. Maglor’s heart sank whenever his thoughts went to the gems. He knew, with a certainty that bordered on irrationality, that the war would only stop when the Silmarils would be in their hands. He had clung onto that thought for years, repeating himself that whatever happened, once they got back what was theirs, then his family would know peace once more.

Now he wondered if that day would ever come.

Maedhros's face was made of stone as he guided the retreat. His hair had been cut short when he had been saved from Thangorodrim, too matted to be cleaned, and he had always kept it short afterwards. Now, disheveled from the battle, it was flames surrounding his grim face. He and Fingon had been close, so close that at times Maglor had wondered just what kind of relationship they had shared.

Maedhros barely spoke a word that was not an order in the following days. He completely disregarded the glamours, and it was not only the gruesome scars left by his captivity that made Maglor shudder whenever he looked at his brother’s face.

***

A carnage.

There was no other way for Maglor to describe this. It had not been a battle between the Noldor and the Sindar. It had been utter carnage.

Now that the fight was over, Maglor felt sick. This was no better than what they had done in Alqualonde. He hated himself for the part of him that still thought the Sindar had deserved this, for daring to keep a Silmaril from them.

It had been a horrible action. _But there had been a good reason for it_. One that could not be excused. _The Silmaril excuse it, it excused everything, it was the only thing that could stop all of this, fix it, take things back to how they used to-_

It wasn't time to lose himself in thought. The army had been defeated, but they still didn't have the gem in their hands. Maedhros had allowed Luthien to wear it for the years she had had left, because she had been mortal and it had only been a matter of waiting and Maedhros knew harming Luthien would have brought Doriath's full fury on them. It had been years of agony and waiting. Maglor had been burning from the inside out with the urgency to take the gem back.

They hadn't been breaking the Oath, technically. They hadn't given up the Silmaril. They had just been stalling, waiting for the right moment. That was what Maedhros had told all of them.

A voice called him, and Maglor turned to see Amrod and Amras.

"Are you well?" he asked.

"Yes," the replied, in chorus.

He nodded. "Maedhros breached the walls earlier. He left me here to deal with the remaining guards. The others?"

"They also breached," the twins said. They always did that, lately, always spoke in chorus whenever they could. It was unsettling.

Then, a scream came from deep within Menegroth. A horrible shout, full of pain and grief, and it took Maglor a second to recognize Maedhros's voice.

He began to run. He had never heard his brother make a sound like that, not when Fëanor had died, not when Fingon had died.

He jumped over bodies and slipped in blood, but did not stop. A barely alive Sinda tried to stop him, but Maglor only pierced him with his sword and kept running. He did not know the internal layout of Menegroth, but he managed to reach what had to be the throne room. Some of their soldiers stood outside, faces striken, and inside was Maedhros. He was on his knees.

Maglor did not understand at first. Maedhros did not appear wounded, only living being amongst the corpses. There had been a fierce fight in here, Sindar and Noldor having killed each other.

Near the throne, was the body of the most beautiful Elf Maglor had ever seen. He had never met Dior, but it was not hard to recognize him. Even in death, his beauty was undeniable, only made macabre by the blood on his face, and the sword buried in his stomach. A Noldor sword, one that was familiar – Celegorm's sword. Maglor didn't understand, Celegorm would have never just left it there.

Just a couple paces from Dior, was another figure. Silver hair, common for the Sindar but rare for the Noldor. It covered the body's face, and Maglor wouldn't have even noticed the corpse, had he not saw the beautiful Noldor armor.

The ground was slipping beneath Maglor's feet. Surely not Celegorm. He couldn't be the only one in their army that had that hair color. Someone else. Maybe one of Teleri descendance, or one born in Beleriand by a mixed couple, or even a Sinda who had betrayed Doriath.

The armor was too beautiful to belong to a traitor.

It couldn't be Celegorm, because where Celegorm was Curufin followed, the two of them had been fighting together, had this been Celegorm then why was Maedhros in a completely different part of the room-

Maglor turned around the room. There, not far from the silver haired body, there was another one, one arm still outstretched as if trying to reach out. Tall, dark hair, a beautiful armor and a sword Fëanor himself had forged for his fifth son. Curufin, always running after Celegorm ever since he had learnt how to walk.

Maglor stumbled towards Maedhros. He needed help, he needed his older brother to tell him what he was seeing, because Maglor did not understand.

Maedhros had his hand pressed to another body. It covered a wound on the ribs, as if trying to stop blood that had already stilled. Maglor could not see the face, because Maedhros was bent down, almost in two, and black hair was all that could be seen.

"What is this," Maglor said. Had his voice always sounded this way, so distant from himself? Was his bad ear finally decieving him?

"He was alive," Maedhros said, in a voice more broken than Maglor could remember coming from him. "He was alive still when I found him. But I couldn't stop the blood, and there were no healers with me, and he's- he's gone-"

No. No. Why was Maedhros bent over this body, when two of his brothers laid dead just a few paces from him?

"He looked so scared." Maedhros' voice sounded close to tears.

Caranthir never looked scared. He always refused to let it show.

A strangled sob came from somewhere near the entrance. The twins must have also gotten there.

Maglor walked as if in dream to Celegorm and Curufin. They had not spoken properly in years. They hadn't had a real conversation after that time at Caranthir's palace. None of them had ever apologized for anything. Now none of them ever would.

They had been so stupid, and cruel, those two. But they were his little brothers, that Maglor had helped raise since birth. He had lifted them in his arms and helped them with their lessons and gotten drunk with them on the day they had come of age. He had always wanted to protect them, every since the first time he had held them, hours after they had come to the world. He had thought so many times that he would willingly give himself to the Valar to face their punishment, just to see his brothers smile again. Not a cunning or scheming grin, not a feral baring of teeth, a smile.

He moved Curufin's hair from his face, still hoping to find a breath. Eyes that were just like their mother's were still fixed towards the place where Celegorm had fell.

He couldn't bring himself to look at Celegorm at all. Celegorm had never been able to stay still, not even in his sleep.

They had come here to get the Silmaril. To fix their family. Not to damage it more.

Caranthir would have made some remarks about irony. Maglor had never wanted to hear his brother's annoyance more.

That cursed gem was nowhere to be found. Dior's wife was dead too, and his sons had been found without it. One of Celegorm's captains said she had left them in the forest to die, and Maedhros screamed at her, and went looking for them, not coming back for two entire days. Maedhros had become harder and colder, but he would have never been able to put innocent children to death, not even his enemy's sons.

No one found Dior's daughter. She had vanished. Someone said the leader of Doriath's guards, a kinsman of Thingol, had also disappeared. It was a mystery up until Maglor remember just who Celeborn's wife was.

The child would have never been able to escape alone. Galadriel, however, she had trained under Melian, and between her arts and Celeborn's sword they could have found a way to slip unnoticed. Maybe even bringing a Silmaril with them. They had been fools to underestimate her.

Maglor hated her now. He had never loved her before, but now he hated. Her husband had been the one to cut his brother down. She had escaped, taking away what was not hers to take.

That day, he hated the Silmaril, too. All three of them, and cursed the day his father had had the wretched idea to create them.

But he needed them. More than ever. If only they could get them, then he, and Maedhros, and Amrod and Amras, they could stop this fight. They could be a family once again.

***

They did not attack Sirion when they realized Elwing was there. She was still a child, who had lost her family because of them, and neither Maedhros nor Maglor were cold hearted enough to harm her now. The twins would have moved against her immediately, but their forces were too weak for that. Their army had been decimated in Doriath, they had to recuperate.

And then, that other Peredhel came along. One day, Turgon was as hidden and safe as ever. The next, he was dead, Gondolin destroyed, and his people were being led by the son of Idril and of a mortal, a boy who was still too young to grow a proper beard, admitting his mixed heritage would allow him to.

Attacking Sirion now would have meant attacking the refugees of Gondolin too. Noldor had never led war against other Noldor.

The need for the Silmaril however grew and grew. Maglor's dreams were as black as the everlasting darkness he had called upon himself. The voices of his father and of his dead brothers screamed at him to take the gem back, they had died for it, he had to fulfill their wishes. His eyes turned towards Sirion as a compass turns towards the North, and he needed it, he needed it, _he needed it_. 

Eventually, their requests for the gem denied, _some Sindar believing they had the right to what was theirs_ , they attacked. A surprise attack, no one had been expecting them to act. No one should have been surprised of what the sons of Fëanor were capable of anymore.

Amrod fell first. Amras followed him mere minutes after. So they had been born, and so they had died.

Maglor did not see it happen, the soldiers told him this when it was all over. Maglor had led his own troops ahead. Hadn’t waited for the twins to catch up with him.

He wished he had been there to get cut down in their places. His little brothers, the youngest of them. The ones they all spoiled and pampered as much as they possibly could. What kind of elder brother was he, when he hadn't been able to save even one of them? When he had failed every single one of them?

He wasn't. An elder brother. Not anymore.

In his rush to get the Silmaril, he did not find Elwing, nor Earendil, nor even the very gem he had been looking for.

He found two children.

They looked older than an Elven child would at their age, but younger than a mortal one. Toddlers, looking up at Maglor with huge eyes, crying in fear. They did not look Noldor as their father, nor Sindar as their mother. Nor mortal, either. They only looked like two scared children.

It did not even occur to Maglor that it was kidnapping at first. All he knew was that children couldn't be on a battlefield, and that he couldn't bear to leave them.

Later, Maedhros did not object to keeping them. If asked, they would have said they were keeping the kids as war prisoners, but in truth neither of them had thought of that at first.

Perhaps their grieving minds were just attempting to cope by exchanging a pair of twins for another.

One of them, Elros, he cried all the way. The other, Elrond, was fearful, and did not make a single sound. Maglor tried to comfort them, but he could not calm them down. Unsurprising, given what the children were going through.

Maglor was the one to care for them at first. He had always liked to babysit, after all. Maedhros helped, but he was often too busy, and his scars scared the children.

Elven twins were always identical. Elrond and Elros weren't.  Elrond's hair w as straighter and darker, while Elros's was slightly waivier and lighter. Elros's nose was more pronounced, and his ears a little more rounded at the tip. In their older years, Elrond barely had a handful of hair on his face, while Elros had his cheeks covering in fuzz and later a proper beard.

Maedhros joked sometimes, that their parents must have split the Elf and the Man between the two of them. Maglor hadn’t heard his brother joke since before Fingon’s death. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed it.

The difference wasn't only in body. Elrond took to Maglor easily, while Elros took more time to warm up. Elros was prone to tantrums where he would scream and cry, Elrond rarely fussed and a lullaby was usually enough to calm him down. Elrons mostly followed the rules he was given, Elros seemed to take pleasure in breaking them. Elros was outspoken, talkative, impatient, full of intense emotions. Elrond was quieter, almost shy, pensive, temper and mood swings rare in him.

They probably deserved better caregivers. Both Maglor and Maedhros had days when they needed a servant to take care of the twins, because the two of them were too plagued by dark thoughts. Maedhros could be too strict, at times, and Maglor could get lost in his own mind. They tried their best, but they could only do so much.

As time passed, the twins stopped being fearful of them, but rather acted around them just as any child would around an adult they trusted.

Then, they grew angry. Not everyday, not all the time, but it was undeniable. How could Maglor be surprised by it, when the children had lost their whole family because of them? The more the twins grew, the more they understood of the events that had led them to be here, and the more easily they would clash with their caregivers.

Elros ran away, once, after a particularly bad fight with Maedhros. He sneaked out in the middle of the night, taking only a knife and some bread. Maedhros went looking for him the moment he found out the child was missing, while Maglor stayed behind and tried to calm down a panicked Elrond, clinging desperately to Maglor’s clothes.

Maedhros tracked Elros down fast. The kid glared and scowled for two weeks, but did not try to leave again. The black eye Elrond gave him in an uncharacterstic violent outburst might have been part of the reason.

"What did you tell him?" Maglor asked, when Elros was back in his chamber.

"That he should know better than leaving his brother behind," Maedhros replied.

Yet, not all days were bad. If Maglor had been truthful with himself, he would have noticed that the days when the twins were angry and frustrated were much less than those when they were almost as a family. A dysfunctional, deeply broken family, but still one. Those times when he and Maedhros and the twins would all sit together, and Elrond would tell them about the new books he had read and Elros would ask to sit on Maedhros’s shoulder to see the world from up there and Maedhros would smile that smile he had showed less and less of through the years, those were the happiest days Maglor had had in longer than he could remember. Times when he could almost forget everything else that was happening in the world.

He loved the children. Not – as he had thought at first, taking care of a pair of twins for the first time since the Ambarussa had been children – because as a memory of his lost brothers, but for the people they were. He had never had children of his own, but if he had, Maglor thought perhaps he would have loved them in the way he loved Elrond and Elros.

And some days, he could even believe Elrond and Elros also loved him. Despite the fact they had all the reasons to hate him.

His thoughts went back to his wife, in Aman. He had trained himself not to think of her, for those thoughts brought too much pain, but now he could not help it. Their marriage bond was frail and tattered, but it was still there if he looked for it. He hoped Vílerë was well, and that she was not too angry at him for taking so long in his quest.

If there was a thing of Beleriand he would have wanted to share with her, it would have been raising the twins.

Eventually, Elrond and Elros left while Maglor and Maedhros were away to deal with an Orc incursion. They left a letter to their caretakers, written in Elrond's handwriting and signed by both. There were no news of them for a long time, until someone saw them fighting as soldiers in Gil-Galad's army.

Maglor tried to not feel the loss too strongly. He knew this day would come, one day. Elrond and Elros were not quite adults, yet, but they had been trained well with the sword, and Elrond had showed to have a gift for healing. Maglor attempted to not worry too much.

There were more pressing matters, after all. The Valar were leading a host from Aman, and this could be what they needed to overthrow Morgoth at last. He and Maedhros kept their forces ready to strike at any moment. Finally, they would be able to fulfill their Oath.

_Then everything would be fine again. He would go back to his wife, and see his mother again, and Maedhros would smile, and Celebrimbor would reconcile with them, and maybe Elrond and Elros would be there too. The Silmarils belonged to them, to their family, they were their treasure. They had to go back to their rightful place, only then would everything be right, only when the Silmarils would be in the hands of their true owners once again, he needed them, needed them, needed them-_

The letter Elrond and Elros left them said the twins loved Maglor and Maedhros as if they had been their fathers. Maedhros turned away the moment he read it, something tortured in his face.

The folded piece of paper sat against in Maglor’s clothes, right against his chest, and it would remain there until time made it crumble to dust.

***

Maglor was in agony. The Silmaril had burnt his right hand, and then his left, and now both were in horrible pain, but he couldn't let go. Now that he had it, after all he had gone through to have it, he wouldn't let go, not even if it turned his hands to ash.

He was crying. The pain was worse than anything else Maglor had ever felt. His heart burnt, too, scorched by the new proof of the magnitude of his sins, any delusion Maglor had had of his actions having been for good turned to smoke.

The Valar would never forgive them now. No Elf ever would. Maglor would never see Aman again, he would never see his wife again.

It was only him and Maedhros, just the two of them, running through the night. They could do it. Just the two of them, it had been just the two of them for so long now. They could- They could- Maglor didn't even know what they could do now, but it was over at last, this war was over, they could find peace.

He realized Maedhros had stopped running.

"Maedhros, what are you doing!" They couldn't stop there, they were still too close to the camp, he could almost see someone following them in the distance.

Tears ran down Maedhros's face. "We can't keep them," he said. His eyes were unfocused. "We can't."

"What are you talking about?"

Maglor once again changed the hand with which he held the Silmaril. Maedhros must have been suffering in an unspeakable way, with only one hand to grasp his.

"We can't hold them."

Maedhros's face distorted in pain, and Maglor could no longer hold on. His fingers opened without his will, and the gem tumbled to the ground. His palms were covered in red and black wounds, blood flowing and yet never staining the Silmaril.

"Makalaurë."

Maglor startled at the foreign sound of his old name. "Brother?"

"I'm sorry," Maedhros said. It didn't seem as if he was truly seeing Maglor at all, or speaking to him. "I failed you all. I should have kept you safe after father died. I'm so sorry, I'm sorry."

"What are you saying?" This wasn't Maedhros's fault. He had always done his best, Maglor knew this.

Maedhros turned, and ran in another direction.

"Maedhros! Where are you going?" Maglor screamed, and picked up the Silmaril, and tried to follow.

Maedhros did not answer. Maglor stumbled and fell, but did not stop. He couldn't understand what was Maedhros doing.

And then Maedhros stopped. The night shone red, light coming from the wounds the rage of the Valar had tore in the land.

Maedhros stumbled, walking towards one of the pits. The light covered his whole body in the same color of his hair. He talked, but the words were jumbled and nonsensical, apologies and names in Sindarin and Quenya and no sense to any of it.

Then Maglor understood.

"No!"

He ran, but too late.

Maedhros fell.

Maglor landed to his knees. He crawled to the edge of the pit, and looking down, all he saw was lava.

He screamed. He called his brother's name, every name his brother had eer used, but the only answer was heat and the crackle of the fires.

His brother was gone. His older brother, the only one Maglor had had left, had killed himself. Maglor had never been in a world without Maedhros.

The fire crackled and tempted him, calling to him to join his family. _You have what you came here for, and that is all you have left. Your family would be proud of you, for fulfilling your Oath. Do you not want to see them again?_

He had always followed Maedhros. Always. But not this time. The fire was throwing light to places of Maglor's mind that had been dark and hidden all those years. He could see it now. The pain, the loss, the crimes, and all for this. For three shining gems and an Oath.

Lies and deceit. That’s what the Oath had put in their minds. And now, now it wanted to finish what it had started. Claim the last one. It would have been so easy, to follow Maedhros down.

Oh, but he would not give that satisfaction to the thing that had killed his family.

Maglor stood, and left. He ran until he could not longer breathe and his legs gave out from under him. The sun was already rising when he stopped at last, on a cliff by the sea that had been a hill just day ago.

He grit his teeth against the fire in his hands. Cursed thing! Fëanor, greatest of the Noldor, and all his sons, how could they all have been so stupid as to take that Oath? To let it destroy them? All for some shiny gems! And now, what was he supposed to do with it? Break it, and maybe his family would jump out of it, safe and sound?

He repeated the Oath in his head, hating every syllable of it. He had never forgotten a single word.

He had had to get the Silmarils back from those who had wrongfully stolen them. He had done that. And now, with the gem that was his blood right, he could do whatever he pleased.

He crawled and stumbled, until he reached the edge of the cliff. With a scream that left his throat burning as his hands, he threw the gem far into the sea.

"Curse it!" he shouted. "And curse the day my father made them! I hope he is happy now, in Mandos!"

Fëanor would not be happy. The young Fëanor who had given Maglor a name would have never been happy to see his sons suffer, but Maglor could not remember. Not his father's smile, nor his hugs. He only remembered him bursting into ashes, leaving them all to deal with the mess he had made.

Maglor took his face between his hands. The raw flesh hurt. He wished it would have hurt more.

Waves hit the cliff, higher than they were minutes ago. Far higher than they should have been.

"If you are here to give it back, leave," Maglor said. "I refuse to ever see it again."

A stronger wave hit the cliff.

"Sink it into the depths and keep it!" Maglor shouted. "Or I will find a way to undo what my father did and crush it into dust!"

The waves stopped. And then, another one came, so big it surpassed the cliff and threw Maglor flat on his back.

"What else do you want from me?" he asked, spitting out salt water.

Ulmo did not answer.


	3. That's the high, and that's the heart of it

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has read so far, it means a lot to me! I do hope you will also like this epilogue, please let me know!

It was a beautiful day to travel. The spring sun was warm, but no excessively so. There was plenty of shade, if one wished for it, the trees covered in new green. The foothills of the Misty Mountains were lovely in this season.

For all their beauty, Maglor did not like to be this far inland. He preferred the coastline. Less likely to have people run into him and recognize him. And as irrational as the thought was, some days it seemed to Maglor that Ulmo had a soft spot for him. It was impossible for a Vala to be fond of someone like Maglor, but he had to admit he felt safer when he was not too far from the shore.

Maybe that was just a sign of him starting to lose his mind, it would be about high time for it.

Even less than being inland he liked being close to Lothlórien. His cousin was famous for having eyes and ears everywhere in her woods, and the last thing Maglor wanted was a family reunion with Galadriel. He missed having people to talk with, sometimes, but he did not miss Galadriel. Too much bad blood there.

Not to mention, his cousin was throwing a party. Her only daughter’s third thousandth begetting day, all Lothlórien would be celebrating, and people would be invited from Lindon and Greenwood and Imladris, and maybe even a King of Men or two. Maglor had no doubts this feast would rival the ones he remembered from Valinor. He would be almost curious to see it, if not for the fact that he was not invited, and his presence would likely ruin the celebrations.

Although knowledge of this feast was part of the reason Maglor was here, on this road, the one he knew was the most traveled by people who wanted to journey to Lothlórien from Imladris.

He adjusted the bandages around his face. His fingers still struggled to move properly, even after all those centuries, the burns never healing properly. He had had to get used to his skin pulling and tugging when he tried to do anything.

Playing the part of a mortal beggar was something he had learnt well. He had begun practicing the moment he had realized avoiding all sorts of people was simply impossible. Acting had never been his passion, but he had been a performer, once, and he had had a little talent for it.

He kept his hair flat against his head, to keep his ears hidden. Some bandages would hide the lack of beard, not to mention his features, if any Elf were to look at him. Most mortals tended to assume the bandages had to mean he was hiding some terrible sickness, which worked in his favor, keeping Men away from him when he did not want to deal with them. His bad posture, hiding how tall he truly was, was only partially an act. Gloves that hid his scars, something he never took off around others. Most people would not glance at him twice, mistaking him for any other lost soul wandering across the lands.

It wasn’t the only disguise he had, of course. When dealing with Men, he had found going as an Elf could be done, as they had long since forgotten him. He even played the part of a woman, occasionally, an act he hated but could be necessary from time to time. Not that most Men even knew how to tell male and female apart, when it came to Elves.

This time, he had decided it was better to play the mortal. He wouldn’t want someone to get suspicious.

He had been lingering around this road for days now, not knowing when exactly they would pass by. He had asked himself multiple times if it was wise to do this, and if it was necessary to wait for them as a robber waiting for victims. He hadn’t been able to talk himself out of it.

He sat by the side of the road when he saw and heard them coming. A small party of Elves, led by a few soldiers.

The one riding a grey horse had to be Galadriel’s daughter. Her silver hair was a flag in the middle of the darker heads around her. She rad at the head of the group, no one else by her side, and Maglor sighed in relief and disappointment both. He would have loved to see Elrond again, but Maglor did not have enough courage to show himself to him. It was lucky that husband and wife had decided to travel separately.

Maglor hadn’t overly liked the news of the marriage between Elrond and Celebrían when he had heard of it. Even if he had not seen him for more than an age, Maglor had never been able to stop considering Elrond as a son. He had not been pleased by the idea of his son marrying the daughter of Galadriel and Celeborn.

But he supposed he could not fault the girl for who her parents were. Blaming children for the identity of their parents had been part of what had made everything end up the way it had.

He kept his gaze low, only turning it to the approaching party when they were close enough for a mortal to have seen them.

“Good morning, sir,” Celebrían said, when she passed in front of him. “Are you well?” Her voice held a gentle note Maglor had never heard from her mother. Not directed at him, at least.

“I’m quite alright, thank you,” Maglor said, keeping his accent as close as possible to a Mannish one. “I only needed to rest my legs for a while.”

“On the ground?” came a voice from behind Celebrían.

Right after her horse rode two young Elves who had Maglor, for a moment, wonder if perhaps he was seeing double.

Maglor struggled to keep his reactions in check. He had never seen Elrond’s sons before. Elladan and Elrohir, those were the names, he had committed them to memory the first time he had heard them. Had he met them before, he still doubted he would have known which one had spoken to him.

“Elrohir, don’t be rude,” Celebrían chastised.

“No harm done, my lady,” Maglor said. “As for why I’m on the ground, I’m afraid there aren’t many other places to sit around here.”

“That is true,” the twin Maglor now knew was Elrohir said, seeming embarrassed by his question. Elladan smirked in a way Maglor recognized as the typical smugness one feels when their sibling had just done something stupid.

“Anyways, I should get going,” Maglor said, pushing himself up to his feet, maybe a touch too hastily. He had thought of many things he could have told them, but now he found that he did not trust himself to continue this conversation without revealing emotions he should not. “By your leave, my lady.”

“Have safe travels,” Celebrían said. Her expression was a little confused, as if she wasn’t sure what to make of him.

Maglor forced a smile, even if he knew she probably could not see it with the bandages. “To you and your family as well.”

He walked away, going in the direction the group had been coming from.

A little after the twins, was a child riding a pony. The little girl was clearly still too small for a proper horse. Maglor would have said she was in her early twenties, had she been an Elf, or maybe eight or nine, had she been a mortal. As it was, young Arwen was more likely somewhere in between those two ages.

She looked at him with curious eyes, and waved shyly. Maglor nodded, and waved back at the child.

As soon as he was sure he had left them behind, Maglor stepped off the path and into the trees. He took the bandages off his face, finding it suddenly very hard to breathe. The world was growing blurry in front of his eyes.

Elrond’s children. He couldn’t believe he had seen them. Maglor’s heart, used to ache with ages old pains, had done leaps of joy when he had heard of the birth of the twins, and then of Arwen. Knowing Elrond was a father had filled Maglor with a strange form of pride. Elrond was not his son, Maglor always repeated himself that to himself, but that could not stop himself from considering those kids as his own grandchildren.

There was joy in knowing that in Imladris Elrond was living happy with his wife and children. He was the closest thing to a family Maglor had left on these shores. Seeing the faces of Elladan and Elrohir and Arwen had been the greatest happiness Maglor had allowed himself to feel in his self-imposed exile.

Tomorrow, tomorrow guilt and pain and self-loathing would come back to haunt him, as they always did. He would go back to the sea, and he would sing songs of loss and tragedy, and he would be alone until someone stumbled upon him by accident or until he couldn’t take the solitude anymore.

But for today, just for one day, even he could be happy. Even a kinslayer, kidnapper of children and failure of all his brothers, even Maglor could allow himself happiness once in an age.

Elladan and Elrohir reminded Maglor of another set of twins, born a long time ago and with hair of a different color. He did not know why, exactly. Perhaps the hunting bows they had had on their shoulders. They also reminded him of Elrond, the lines of their faces quite similar to how Maglor remember him. They were tall and proud, full of that sort of confidence young Elves have when they are already adults but not yet old enough to be wise.

Arwen had seemed a sweet child, with flowers braided in her black hair. Maglor had never met Lúthien, but he had heard her hair had been the darkest of blacks, and maybe Arwen had taken from her. Maybe she would also be a legendary beauty when she grew up, but for now Arwen was probably far too young to care, still at that happy age when all children wanted was climbing trees and playing chase.

Maglor walked deeper and deeper into the woods, and for the first time since the Sun had shone he found himself praying to the Valar he still had not fully forgiven. Not for himself, no, he did not have that right. He only hoped that if someone was merciful enough to listen, they would accept his prayers for his family’s happiness.

**Author's Note:**

> Vílerë - vílë is, according to the Quenya dictionaries I parsed, "gentle breeze", while -rë is a common feminine ending. It refers both to her very low tone of voice, and to her flute playing.


End file.
